Super-Bad
by IronCladx
Summary: Ezekial Author has many titles. Meta-human, ex-Superhero, infamous villain, former megalomaniac and vanguard of galactic destruction, and finally, prisoner. And if he doesn't break out soon, you can add violently murdered to that list. Chased by enemies he doesn't understand he must survive the oncoming apocalypse. But is it worth surviving when you've sacrificed everything else?
1. Episode 1

Episode 1: Pilot

"To destroy is always the first step in any creation." **\- E.E Cummings**

 **"Every human has four endowments - self-awareness, conscience, independent will and creative imagination. These give us the ultimate human freedom... The power to choose, to respond, to change." - Stephen Covey**

 **We like to think that change is something that can be controlled. Predestined, earned through trials of fire, or wrangled by a force much greater than ourselves.**

 **That would be a lie.**

 **Change is like innovation. Constantly molding itself, self-destructing and rebuilding at the mere whim of those brave enough to challenge their norms. Or more frequently, surprising those in their time of greatest need.**

 **Like a Eureka moment, Change does not come when we want it. It is not a privilege. Change comes when we need it. When it becomes more than a privilege; a necessity.**

 **Change comes when we are willing to destroy what we once knew, and embrace a path that we cannot fully understand.**

 **Only in darkness, can a flame burn its brightest. Only when we destroy our previous self, can we begin putting back the pieces to something better.**

 **And in the process, create something greater than before.**


	2. Part 1: Common Courtesy

_**Episode 1: Pilot**_

 _ **Part 1: Common Courtesy**_

Two years ago, my best friend died.

Out of respect, I'll start it off like this.

He was new to the corps, his immaculate maroon guard uniform only doing so much to hide the smooth baby face, or the crippling fear that was crawling up his spine. Fear, it's interesting isn't it? It's a preemptive of caution, yet it is when we're afraid that we make our greatest mistake.

This isn't a superhero story.

What the hell, is a freakin' "Superhero" anyway?

I could tell this kid wouldn't last long. If I could see it, so had every other rapist, murderer, terrorist and psychopath in this shit-stain of the universe. In a place like The Hole, fear either kept you alive, or got you killed.

I would know, Fear and me are long lost friends.

My friend would say: "According to Khandarian Sanatorium dictionary, Superheroes are "benevolent fictional characters with superhuman powers."

His cap was pulled on tight, taut blue eyes darting between the walls of the grey hallway. It was empty, and while the fact that he was alone would comfort most, to him, the silence was suffocating. He griped onto the metal slab between his fingers, the block of white powder and tiny glass more threatening than any food items should be.

 _I_ _n my own humble opinions, they're freaks with a whole lotta' power, fueled by optimism and love and all that's sparkly and nice._

"Don't worry about it kid," the guard almost jumped out of his skin at the voice that spoke in his ear. "He can't hurt ya kid. The foods been processed and scanned, and he's locked up like a pig. Just get it over with."

The kid swallowed, a rock dropping in his stomach. "Yea," he breathed as he forced himself forward. "Get it over with."

Blinded by some unreachable goal, some petty value, a naive heart or foolhardy principle. In other words, they're fictional smiley fictional dumb asses who spout peace, when peace is just a concept, one complimented by chaos.

 _My friend was, for lack of a better term, a nerd._

But out of respect, for him, let's just stick with his version.

It was torture, but when it finally came to an end when he reached the door at the base of the hallway he wished that it hadn't. That had been the easy part he realized, as scary as it was, his life was still relatively intact. After he crossed that door, all bets were off.

He paused, fear eating away at whatever will he'd gathered. He could go, grovel to his superiors to give him a less important job on his second day on the job. Who could really blame him?

Then he thought about it, getting on his knees to his prick of a supervisor and begging for mercy. "Get it over with."

With that mantra he placed his palm on the door's pad, the recognition system _whirring_ as a red laser beamed into his eyes.

 _"Please state necessary entry information."_ the robotic voiced door demanded.

Note: In both definitions, you will find the word fictional. That wasn't a mistake.

"Damien Gravestone, Human of Planet position 321-Mars, Guardsmen-Initiate. Purpose: Mid-day feeding." Ezekiel couldn't have thought of a more terrifying way to say 'Lunch', but down in the hole, well, if something wasn't overtly terrifying, that was a need to be concerned.

As cliche as it sounds, it really is the quiet ones that'll snap your neck.

Don't get me wrong, anyone else and the first thing that'll come out of their mouths are: "Yeah, that guy with the really stupid name, Safeguard! He's the real deal, he's a superhero."

Well congratulations, by calling him a Superhero, you're even more of an idiot. At least Safeguard can protect himself from his stupidity. You're shit out of luck, you average-can't-stop-a-bullet-joe.

It was the bolts that made him sweat, the symphony of locks and gears as the door took its sweet time as it opened. It gave him silence. And silence gave him time to think, preferably about just how much of an idiot he was to not run when he had the chance.

Before he could chicken-out however the final lock open with a _click._ He internalized his groan, sucked in a breath of air, pushed his shoulders back, chin up like his mom taught him and marched into the room with as much confidence as he could fake.

I could tell that I was… disappointing to the kid. Could I call him that? I was _technically_ older than him. Anyway, he was disappointed in me, and who could blame him?

I was a six-foot, scrawny black kid who looked like I'd break a finger if I tried to hit the bullet/laser proof glass that surrounded me. My hair was a mess of dark knots, and don't get me started on just how messed up my hairline was.

Disappointing? You'd think that the former manipulator of the complete destruction of the universe would at least be able to have a decent haircut.

That's… another story, for another day.

Well, fuck off. When in lock-up for contemplation of mass-murder and genocide you don't get a lot of privileges, like a razor for instance. With the mass of alloy, connected at the wrists and covering everything from my fingers to my elbows, it's not like I could make much use of one anyway.

They're not superheroes, smart people call them "metas". They're basically the same thing, except one is fiction and the other is not. According to the Interplanetary Meta Association, a meta is someone deemed with extraordinary abilities that defy generally held notions of their reality/species.

So no, that green dude that's tossing buildings and reading minds isn't a meta. He's a god damned alien, and by the way he's throwing around that coffee place, he doesn't like your species.

"You're… surprisingly normal." Damien blinked, as if too shocked to realize he'd just called an interplanetary terrorist _normal_.

I gave him a look, green eyes blank. "And here I was think you'd say 'black.'." At the embarrassed look that covered his cheeks I almost laughed. "Relax. You didn't, so I don't have to kill you."

Damien froze, the shaking tray going still in his grasp. Great, now I've gone and scared him stiff. Better fix that before he pisses himself, or worst yet, not give me my lunch.

"You just gonna' stand there? I don't know if you can tell, but I'm starving." I nudged my metal stumps at my skinny frame. "You already serve me trash, kinda' cruel to make me beg for it aye'?"

So, what is a meta? Or like my friend would say, a Superhero. Or even just a Hero.

The kid broke from his trance, taking three quick steps towards my prison. The room was circular in design, the glass cage that housed me sunk into the room meaning that he had to walk down a retractable walkway before coming eye-level with his charge.

He moved to a built in pad, repeating his entry details into the security measures before the glass responded, a small rectangle melting into an extended pad in which he placed the tray before it retracted, the rectangle closing with him. The pad _whined_ again, coming to a stop before the charge as a robotic voice echoed within the cage.

 _"Please take your supplements, prisoner-768."_

I only stared at the 'supplements'. A hard block of white goo and a glass of water being what the Hole called a satisfying lunch. Of course, it was just another strategy of imprisonment. Keep the prisoners starving and broken, and you'll find them too weak to put up any resistance.

Hmph. Like that would actually work. They're _fatally_ insane if they think momentary weakness will hold me back.

I'll assume you're asking for a deeper meaning behind the term. If not, pay attention and scroll up.

"I need my hands kid." The guard only blinked as I sighed in frustration. Great, he was a newbie. God these guys were something else, who the hell put them in charge of this prison? "The cuffs, I need them powered down. To use my fingers, to pick up the trey."

Ezekiel laughed an awkward, "sorry," before moving towards the pad. He went through the motions, raising a card and placing it against the scanner before speaking another command into existence.

"De-power restraints on prisoner-768 up to wrist level."

The metal gauntlets _beeped_ before beginning to peel back, revealing my digits to the world slowly but surely. I couldn't help the relieved sigh that swept through me as I curled and flexed my fingers, the painful yet delicious sounds of them cracking as I balled them into fists.

God, having your hands locked into place 20-hours a day really did suck.

The guard was probably thinking the same thing as answered awkwardly. "Must feel nice huh?"

Oh dude… "You don't even know man." I chuckled as I flexed my hands experimentally one more time, before grabbing the tray and sitting on the floor.

As I carefully began to dig into my disgusting lunch I noticed the guard hadn't left. Instead he actually came _closer_ to the cage. "You're human… right?"

I blinked mid-bite, casting a 'really?' look at him. "Do I look blue to you?"

He blanched, before releasing a nervous laugh. "Yeah, stupid question. Got it." A moment of silence went by, him finding just about anything to look at other than the prisoner, while I quietly chowed down my lunch.

Halfway through the goo he spoke again. "You're from the United States aren't ya?"

I blinked. Wow, the dude had managed to surprise me. "That's… oddly specific." I eyed him once more. "What makes ya' say so?"

"I'm from Mars," he answered quickly, taking a moment to regain himself. "Born and raised, but from all the shows and stuff I saw growing up, you sound like the stereotypical one."

Huh, even Humans on Mars had a stereotypical depiction of Americans. I wonder if it was about obese idiots obsessed with guns and sports, like the rest of us back on Earth thought.

"I'm not american," I didn't know if it was disappointment or excitement on my face as I answered him. "But, I did live there for a lot of my life… about eleven years."

I was confused by the shock on his face until he stuttered out his question. "H-how old are you?"

Ahhh… Yeah, I keep forgetting about that. Most people keep thinking that I'm eighteen. "I'm technically around two centuries old." I brought up my hands, halting the sputtering questions that was about to come. "Wait man! It's a long story, physically I'm eighteen, but something happened and…" I groaned, taking a sip of water before giving him a flat look. "Long story. Leave it like that."

Damien only nodded as a awkward silence fell between them. Of all the places to have this conversation, and I was having it with a guardsmen to my own cell, in one of the most dangerous prisons in the Universe, at the edge of space.

I'll admit it. Isolation makes a lonely man desperate.

Surprisingly, it was the kid that spoke first. "So… You've met… the Sentinels, right?"

"Jesus kid," It was all I could do not to groan in annoyance. Every guard, new or veteran, always brought those bastards up in some way or fashion. Most of them were just dicks about it, coming in here to taunt or feel better about their insufferable lives.

Others, the smart ones, came to ask the more important questions. What were they like? Were they all truly 'superheroes'? What was it like fighting them?

And the most important one of them all…

"Why?" The kid blinked, face scrunched up as if trying to dissect some great problem in his mind. "Why'd you fight them?"

I sighed, finishing off the last of the goo with a large bite. I cringed as it went down, forcing it down my throat and trying not to throw it all back up. That, would be bad. Normally, I wasn't so proactive about eating this garbage, but today was different, I'd need the strength if I was going to survive to see the end of it.

"Don't ask kid." He opened his mouth to respond, but I fixed him with a fiery glare. Wanna' know a pro for being an internationally known criminal? When you glare at someone like you're gonna' kill them, they usually take the hint.

Instead he paused, a heavy silence taking over the room before treading into less threatening waters. "W-what were they like?"

I looked at him, gauging if it was worth the effort or not, the kid had lived up to his job. Whatever happened next wouldn't depend on staying in the kid's good graces or not.

But he'd… interested me. God, that sounds dark and creepy, but it was the truth. Maybe it was just that he was new and naive, I always had a soft spot for those not knowing what shit they were getting into. Reminded me of myself, not so long ago.

"They are… interesting." I nodded, digging into my memory. It would still take a few minutes take effect and digest, why not waste some time. He'd need his entry card anyway.

Heroes are different.

Some, are exactly what they sound like. Super-powered heroes with an all-american smile who fly through the sky and dive in front of speeding bullets.

"Peacekeeper was the boy-scout."

Some, are broken. Your regular guys like you, the ones that got all the fancy gadgets and move in the shadows. They're the ones that are shatter, but who use those shards for something other than drinking.

"The Warden, was a self-righteous prick."

Some are lost, who wander the universe like ronin, searching for something that they can't really find. Maybe they're outlaws, maybe, they're cowboys. In the end, they're all killers.

"Zion was just an asshole."

Some, just want to protect. Protect themselves, protect their families, protect their world. Blessed, or cursed, with powers they never asked for, they find themselves pushed to the forefront of their race. Protecting those, and sacrificing for those they'll never meet.

"Zara had purple skin, she was hot, but Vanarians are kinda' weird. _"_

Some, believe in Justice. Whether its at the end of a noose or in a jail cell, some can't stand by and watch other people run around hurting others. People like this, damn, they're just born for this. They got the naive hope in their heart from the get-go.

"Bolt, was alright. When he could shut up."

"And what about you?"

I paused, coming out from the haze of my memories as I looked at Damien. He was staring at me, a stupid look glued to his face, totally engrossed in my words.

"Me?" I asked dumbly.

He nodded. "Yeah, which type were you?"

Me?

I laughed, low and sad as I shook my head. "I… wasn't any of them. I'm no hero." I eyed his dangerously, poison seeping into my voice. "Maybe you forgot who you were talking too."

"Ahh…" I'll never get used to how quickly some people crumbled under a hard enough glare. "Sorry."

"Damien," the guard started. "My name is Damien… you know, common courtesy."

There was a moment of silence, Damien paused as if waiting for a response. I didn't give him one.

He turned, circling the cage, moving towards the closest security pad. He passed by several doors, built into the sides to release hundreds of murderous robots, in the emergency that would mean me escaping my cell.

Too bad they wasted all that money on them. In a few seconds, they'd be useless.

I'm sorry… did I forget to mention that?

"You know," he started, pausing at the security pad. "For what it's worth, I don't think you deserve to be in this shit-stain."

Oh, the kid curses now. "Why'd you say that?"

He shrugged, blue eyes filled with sympathy. "This place, it's for the crazies. You may be a bad guy, but you're not crazy."

I laughed, fixing him with a small smile. "Some people think that makes it worst."

"Maybe, at least there's a chance you won't kill me for sport."

He turned, raising his security card up to the scanner as he begun the process. The eye-recognition _whired_ the fingerprint scanner scanned.

He sighed, feeling pity in his heart before steeling himself. "Damien Gravestone, Human of Planet position 321-Mars, Guardsmen-Initiate. Power restraints on—"

 _WHACK!_

I told you earlier, this ain't a superhero story.

The young guardsmen collapsed quickly, slumping against the glass like a rag-doll before gravity did the rest, dragging him to the floor in a heap of maroon limbs. His head lolled to the side, blood dripping from the flowing gash that spread across the crown of his head.

This is more of a: I-fucked-up-and-here-I-am-trying-to-fix-it-so-that-I-won't-end-up-dead kind of story.

In my own, somewhat fucked-up psychotic way.

"Ouch…" I paused, flinching slightly as I pulled back, blood smeared on my gauntlets. "I… I didn't mean to hit ya' that hard kid."

And I didn't. Honestly, isolation makes a man desperate, maybe I had gotten a tad excited.

"You'll live though," I scrambled, reaching into his pockets to lift his ID from him before beginning to strip him of his uniform. "After I'm gone, you might not have a job, but you'll survive."

Stripped down to his boxers and socks, the kid was a pretty sad sight as the blood began to crust over the bleeding wound from his head. I had tried to staunch the blood with my old orange-prisoner uniform, but I was an interplanetary terrorist dammit, not a doctor.

"Alright kid, I don't have a lot of juice, but I like ya." I paused, feeling the stolen energy inside me blink before grabbing the kid.

There was a _pop!_ as the two disappeared, popping back into existence once again in his cage. He gently rest the boy, in what was rapidly becoming his former-cell bed. He gathered the pillows, resting it against his head, as he wrapped his old uniform around Damien's head in a makeshift gauze.

He stood up, admiring his work, before in another second teleporting out of the cage in Damien's old uniform. His face morphing into a exact replica of the new guard who'd tried to become friends with the terrorist.

I took a deep breath, relief flowing through me. The hardest part was over, time to get out of this shit hole.

I paused however before leaving, something gnawing at me, telling me it was unfinished business to handle. The thing about being one of us, is that you develop a certain 'calling' to know when to snark out lines, or generally just be a smooth-criminal, so to speak. How'd you think we always come up with such cool catch phrases.

It was time for mine.

"Ezekiel," he looked at Damien's unconscious form on the bed. "Ezekiel Author… you know… common courtesy."

And then, I began my breakout. From prison, from justice of my former allies, from my desperate death sentence I'd seen in a nightmare.

Maybe, just maybe, I could do this.

I didn't know what the hell, I was getting into.


End file.
